Drawing Dead Page 7

  The Indian was halfway through the first rack when Rhino appeared.

  “Come for a rematch?”

  “Cross,” the Indian answered.

  “Follow me.”

  Tracker took a seat facing Cross in the back room. They sat in silence for a few minutes. Finally, he said, “You are the most patient white man I ever met.”

  “What tribe are you?” Cross replied.

  “Chickasaw,” Tracker replied, his chest swelling with pride. “You know anything about our people?”

  “I know you didn’t farm and you didn’t hunt.”

  “Which makes us what?”

  “Makes you just like us,” Cross said.

  Tracker nodded his agreement. “Those three in that house? They’re not in charge. Somebody with money is behind this. That place doesn’t look like much, but it’s plush inside. Expensive. High-tech equipment. Audio, video, everything. High-end editing gear, a duping machine…a complete studio.”

  “So they’re in business.” If Cross felt any surprise at Tracker’s ability to get inside the house, his face didn’t show it.

  “They kept talking about another man. No name, though.”

  “Motion sensors? Dogs?”

  “Nothing. It’s a cheese box. It doesn’t look like anything special—that’s their security.”

  “If they’re making product, they’ll have to deliver it to get paid.”

  “I followed the first one to leave that house for a full forty-eight,” Tracker answered. “He went out when it was heavy-dark, but I could see there’s some kind of compartment in the trunk of that Chevy. He went all the way back across the border. Not talking just geography—the place he drove to was in Winnetka.”

  “You think the money’s there?”

  “Can’t say for sure.” The Indian shrugged. “But why else would that Chevy go into such a ritzy suburb? He wasn’t scouting, knew exactly where he had to go, and he’s got the clicker for one door of the garage. And that house where they’ve got the equipment, it feels…temporary. Like I said, it’s got nice stuff in there, but there’s no real furniture, nothing much except the equipment.”

  “Keep watching,” Cross told the Indian. “We’re close now.”

  “What it comes down to is this,” Cross said to Rhino. “Is the guy in that Winnetka house bent like the others, or is he just a businessman? He’s got to be either a dealer or a collector.”

  “Could be both,” Rhino replied. “We’ve seen that before.”

  “If he’s a merchant…if that’s all he is…no way he takes those freaks back to his place if they’re on the run. But if he’s with them…

  “We need to spook them. Spook them bad. Then they’ll run, no doubt. What we need to see is where they run to.”

  Herman Holtstraf pushed the button to summon the elevator, his face twisted into a grimace of impatience.

  It was only the ninth floor—what the hell was taking so long? Finally, the DOWN button lost illumination and a faint ping! announced the car’s arrival. The doors slid open.

  He was already striding forward when he noticed the elevator car was filled with…something. Holtstraf opened his mouth, but he was too late—something clapped a hand across the front of his throat, cutting off the air supply.

  Rhino walked off the elevator, holding Holtstraf by the throat at arm’s length in one hand as if he were a bag of especially bad-smelling garbage. A man in a dark business suit was waiting by the door to Holtstraf’s apartment. He dipped into Holtstraf’s pocket and expertly extracted his keys.

  The three men entered the apartment, Cross in the lead. Rhino continued his throat-lock on the target, effortlessly maintaining the grip as Cross checked the place for anything that might be a problem.

  Cross re-entered the front room, came up behind Holtstraf, and kicked the back of his right knee, knocking the man’s legs out from under him. As Holtstraf collapsed to the floor, Rhino rode him down, maintaining his grip.

  Cross snapped a set of anesthetic nose plugs onto the target, blocking his mouth with a steel-mesh-gloved hand in the same motion.

  In less than a minute, Holtstraf was out, breathing deeply through his nose.

  Cross pulled out a cheap cell phone, tapped a number, hit SEND. He heard a receiver picked up at the other end, said “Yes,” and hit END.

  Leaving Rhino to watch the captive, Cross pulled a roll of heavy construction paper from his coat. He spooled the paper and quickly taped it to the empty white wall along one side of the front room. On the paper was a neat circle of cutouts—some kind of stencil.

  Cross took out a small can of spray paint, shook it a few times, and sprayed a tiny test pattern on an edge of the white paper. Satisfied, he sprayed the cutouts in a careful circular motion. He replaced the paint can and gently lifted off the stencil. On the wall was a circle of skulls in bright red. A broken circle—three of the skulls were missing from the right arc.

  Four sharp raps on the apartment door. Rhino got up and unslung his Uzi as he moved. When he opened the door, Princess stepped inside. The bodybuilder was dressed in a bulky set of dull-gray sweats, his head covered by a Navy watch cap. Over his shoulder was a blue leather golf bag.

  Cross and Rhino each took one arm of the unconscious Holtstraf and dragged him toward the wall, until his back was flat against it. They took a firm grip on Holtstraf’s wrists and pulled upward.

  “He’s too tall for me,” Cross said. “Wait.”

  He came back with a wooden milk carton that Holtstraf had used to store his collection of LP vinyl records. Cross dumped out the records, turned the box on its side, and used it as a step-stool. This time, when the two men pulled, Holtstraf was suspended between them, arms outstretched.

  Princess unzipped the golf bag and carefully removed a harpoon. He tested the tip with one gloved thumb, nodded.

  “He started it,” Cross whispered to the bodybuilder. “He’s the leader of that rape-tape gang. If he walks away, he’s going right back to them. We have to leave a message so the rest of them come out from where they’re hiding.”

  Princess nodded, looking more sad than angry. Then he took up his position about four feet from the suspended target, torqued his hips, and launched with all his strength. The razor-tipped harpoon took Holtstraf in the sternum, piercing him as easily as an ice pick through cardboard.

  When Cross and Rhino dropped their grips, Holtstraf stayed in place—pinned to the wall like an insect on a spreading board.

  The Web tabloids competed for “Most Lurid Headline,” their entries all some form of…

  BIZARRE CULT MURDER! GORE-SOAKED SCENE IN LUX CONDO!

  Expert speculations ranged from a Midwestern version of a resurrected Manson Family to the Zodiac Killer finally emerging from hiding. But Chicago had the edge in local connections, from William Heirens to Richard Speck to John Wayne Gacy.

  And since the Second City was still number one on the hit parade, the NRA gifted it with an Op-Ed pointing out that even a total ban on firearms wouldn’t have stopped this hideously violent homicide.

  How anyone had managed to snap a photo of the pinned-to-the-wall body stayed a mystery, but word that one of the ultra-sleaze national papers had paid a million in cash for that prize became a “verified rumor” within hours.

  Sales of the red T-shirts with…

  CHICAGO POLICE HOMICIDE SQUAD

  OUR DAY BEGINS WHEN YOURS ENDS

  …in white lettering emblazoned across the front forced continual reprinting to satisfy the orders ceaselessly pouring in. The stress of filling the orders caused three consecutive price increases in two days. How else was the city going to pay those working round-the-clock shifts just to keep up with fulfillment demands?

  Cross idly shifted through a stack of newsprint in Red 71’s back room, an ashtray next to the cellular phone by his elbow.

  For all the tension in his posture, he could have been a Miami pensioner scanning the Early Bird Specials.

  In diametric contr
ast, Buddha sat across the small table as rigid as an I-beam, barely containing the neurons and synapses blasting off inside his body. Both men were smoking: Cross in his usual way, three drags per cigarette; Buddha taking each down to the filter—and he was already on his second pack.

  The phone buzzed. Cross opened the line, said, “Go,” softly.

  “Running.” Tracker’s voice.

  Cross put down the phone. “They’re spooked, brother. Got to be heading for home base. And our money.”

  “What about the…?”

  “Relax, now. There’s only two of them left.”

  “Three,” said the pudgy man with unblinking agate eyes. “There’s still someone in that place in Winnetka.”

  “You could be right,” Cross conceded. “They have to go to ground somewhere, and whoever lives in that house, he could be the bankroller. They ran that racist crap as an excuse, but they did run it. No telling how many crews are after them right now.”

  “Yeah. And whoever hits them gets a pass. But, boss…they’re all partners, right?”

  “Not if the guy in that fancy house is buying those rape tapes. He never went along on any of their attacks. Like a general, okay? He could care less what happens to the grunts. You remember how that plays….”

  “Yeah. But if this guy was a buyer or a collector, he’d be a user, one way or another. The only way he could be sure the others wouldn’t roll on him would be to get them out to where he is. They might need escape cash, sure. But this guy in the mansion, he needs them dead. We’ve got to make sure—”

  “Buddha, look: we can’t spare the manpower to watch his house. Not in that neighborhood. We’d have no cover, so we’d have to keep switching off. Soon as we know they’re moving, then we take them. Not before, understand?”

  “Yeah…” the pudgy man said grudgingly.

  “What?” Cross snapped at him.

  “Look, boss. You got us all deployed, right? I mean, like you said, everyone’s in the field. I’m here, wheelman, in case we need to jump. Okay, I got that. But that means So Long’s alone now.”

  “You think—what?—they’re going to stop and pull off another gang rape now? Anyway, she’s not alone,” Cross said quietly.

  “Who’s on it, then? I know it can’t be Ace. You’re not using a contract man, are you? Not for guarding my wife?”

  “Tiger’s there,” Cross told him. “I just told her it was a job. But when she heard what it was about…”

  The pudgy man visibly relaxed. A faint smile flickered across his lips. “Tiger in the same room as a couple of gang rapists. Put that bout on pay-for-view, you’d get a few million buys.”

  “It’s illegal to sell snuff films,” Cross replied, at peace somewhere inside himself.

  Four hours later; just shy of eleven at night.

  The two men were in the same position. Only the overflowing ashtray gave any indication of the passage of time.

  “Boss?”

  “What?”

  “You sure that phone’s batteries are working?”

  Cross pointed a finger at the glowing green LED on the cellular, then at the wire leading to the charger. He closed his eyes again.

  It was another half-hour before the phone buzzed. Cross picked it up, held it to his ear without a greeting.

  “He landed,” came Tracker’s voice. “He was running a loop. A long loop. Back to that spot in Winnetka. Fancy joint, big fence all around. Could be a hot LZ.”

  “You okay there?” Cross asked.

  “Negative. I stick out worse than a white man on a reservation. One with no casino.”

  “Mark the spot and take off. We’ll meet you at your bar. An hour, hour and a half tops.”

  “I’m gone.”

  The Shark Car cut through the night, Buddha at the wheel. “Rhino and Princess—how they gonna get there?” he asked.

  “Probably take the CTA,” Cross replied.

  “Jesus,” Buddha muttered, the picture of Rhino and Princess riding the elevated train at that hour of the night too much for his sensors. “I hope nobody says something stupid to Princess….”

  They found the two men just past the corner of Wilson and Broadway. Princess was watching a three-card-monte operator, enthralled at the slickness of the man’s pitch.

  “Find the Lady,” the monte man crooned. “Find the beautiful Lady. Where is she hiding? Oh, she’s right in front of you, men. But she’s such a clever little thing. Who wants to try?”

  The Shark Car pulled to the curb. Cross was out before it came to a complete stop. Rhino whirled, saw who it was, and dragged a reluctant Princess behind him. They piled into the backseat—Cross sat next to Buddha.

  It was only a couple of blocks to the Indian bar. Buddha left the engine running while Cross stepped inside. He was back in seconds, Tracker at his side. Cross again took the shotgun seat as the Shark Car blended into the night.

  “It’s just around the next corner,” Tracker said, leaning forward to speak to Cross.

  The Shark Car slowed as though attuned to the Indian’s voice and gently cruised to a stop between two palatial homes.

  “You see anything?” Cross asked him.

  “Just the fence. Could be any damn thing behind it.”

  “Yeah. We can’t stay here. Neighborhood like this, a prowl car would spook at anything strange.”

  “Can’t we just Rambo it?” Princess pleaded. “It’d only take a minute.”

  “Neighborhood like this, houses probably all running Central Station alarms. Pass.”

  “How about burning him out?” Rhino suggested in his squeaky voice.

  “And burn the cash, too? Tracker, you up for a whistle job?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. You guys split. Stay close. Keep moving. Soon as we’re ready to roll, I’ll buzz you.”

  “Boss?”

  “What?”

  “Let me go, too. Rhino can drive the—”

  “Be yourself, brother,” Cross said, quietly rejecting the offer.

  Cross and Tracker, both dressed totally in black, hooded sweatshirts down to silk gloves, skirted the target’s property. The fence was wrought iron, with spikes at the top of each stake. Tracker knelt, made a low whistling sound guaranteed to bring out any dog that might be nearby.

  Silence followed.

  Cross knife-edged his hand, moved it parallel to the ground. Tracker shook his head—no motion sensors as far as he could see.

  Several lights were on in the big house, glowing faintly yellow from behind drawn curtains. Cross made a steering motion with two hands. Tracker nodded agreement—the garage was their best approach. The two men walked the perimeter of the grounds until they were next to the garage, which was set up in an unusual configuration: a double door in between two singles.

  Cross spread his legs and cupped his hands, interlocking the fingers. Tracker put one foot into the cup and drove up as Cross heaved with both hands. He caught the top of the fence and jackknifed over in one motion. Cross stayed where he was, a silenced semi-auto in his hand.

  They waited a full two minutes. Nothing stirred.

  Cross handed his pistol to Tracker through the fence. Then he climbed over the fence himself, not as smoothly as the Indian, or as quickly. Tracker led the way across the grounds, moving behind the big garage toward the house. He spotted a fieldstone patio, clean, bare of any furniture. Only a screen door stood between the two prowlers and the inside of the house.

  Tracker looked a question at Cross, who shrugged in response. Then he hooked a finger through the door handle and tugged lightly. The door held. A pair of wire cutters materialized in Cross’s hands. The screen door yielded without further resistance.

  The men entered the house: Tracker first, then Cross, the silenced pistol back in his hand. The first floor was empty, unfurnished. On the second floor, they passed a staircase with a special elevator to carry a wheelchair. Whoever lived in that house wasn’t some mere collector, or even a merchant—he was something
more than that. Worse than that.

  At the top of the next floor, Tracker signaled “Stop!” He held up his hand, cupped an ear, motioned Cross to step closer.

  “I want protection,” a deep, metallic voice said. “Exactly as I was promised. Protection. Which means I can’t stay here. I don’t have mobility, but I have to move. Do you understand me? Out of the country. And it has to be now. Right now!”

  Silence. Broken only by the sound of constricted breathing as the speaker listened to the other end of a phone call. Then:

  “Perhaps I haven’t made myself clear. You have the keys to the Audi—it’s already rigged to transport me. Remember, it’s only you two little worms on those tapes, not me. Whoever killed Holtstraf, they know. It feels like there’s a Santería priestess somewhere in this. And those people, they’re all insane.

  “So I’m getting out. And you’re coming with me—I’ve got enough cash so we can all get out of the country and live like kings. But it has to be now! Either you both show up here ready to go in ninety minutes…That’s right, ninety minutes, no longer!

  “Listen very closely: if you don’t show, I’ve got other options. You don’t, neither one of you. And if I have to use any of my other options, I’m going to be sending a little present to the FBI.”

  The sound of a connection being severed. Harsh whistle-breathing. Wheels rolling. Refrigerator opening. Closing. Something poured into a glass.

  Cross and Tracker exchanged nods, then slipped their stocking masks off before they stepped into the room where the voice had come from.

  “Urghh…?” The speaker looked like a random assembly of body parts, with a mouth no bigger than most nostrils. But there was no mistaking the vertically linear–iris eyes of a born predator.

  “Shut up,” Cross told him, his voice as calm and detached as a 911 operator’s. “You got something we want. Here’s the equation: You give it to us and we’re gone. You don’t, then you are.”

  The creature pointed to a console with his one complete arm, a handless appendage that ended in a pointed, bony stub. When Cross nodded his understanding, the creature tapped some buttons: